Disclaimer: I don't own James Bond or Sherlock.

After a bloody mission in the rainforests of Brazil, a painful wound to the sternum from a grenade shrapnel and three weeks playing dead on a beach in the Caribbean, breaking into Q's flat seemed like a marvellous idea.

James was not surprised it went sideways.

First of all, finding the place had been a bloody chore and a half. Q, as far as James could tell, didn't actually exist in any database he had access to. Her real name was a mystery to any and all employees of MI6 he had asked – though he did suspect that Tanner knew more than he was saying – and bribing and cajoling the Q Branch techs had been a waste of time. In the end he had had to resort to following her home one night after thirty-hour long shift and, even if he was sure she had known something was wrong, he had managed to pinpoint the building she lived in.

After that, finding a flat bought under an alias was a piece of cake.

Now, months after the fact, the knowledge proved useful. Usually, when he decided to resurrect himself, he would break into M's – old M's, that was, not Mallory's – flat and greet her with a tumbler of scotch and a witty one-liner that had always been sure to make her eyes twitch in a way that indicated an aborted eye-roll.

M was dead though, had been dead for months and her flat was long gone.

James tried not to think on why he had suddenly selected Q's place as an acceptable alternative.

Q – or Allison Walters as all the proper documents, most certainly fake, proclaimed her to be – lived in a fairly large flat with a wonderful view of the city. It had a wide, open floor plan, glass walls that, James noted appreciatively, despite their risk to the security, were far enough from other similarly high buildings to offer a rather difficult target to any sniper, and sleek, modern-looking furniture that clashed horribly with his mental picture of cardigan-wearing, tea-drinking Quartermaster. Not surprising were three futuristic-looking monitors on a large chrome-and-glass desk in one corner, apparently, judging by the discarded bits and pieces of delicate and expensive gadgets, reserved for her work. It was the only place in the whole flat that showed a sign of life, every other surface meticulously cleaned and shining.

The flat also had one of the best security systems James had ever seen.

He had entered easily enough, to his dismay, and was just about to mentally review all the flaws he had discovered for later consideration and improvement (he also carefully did not think about why he wanted it improved as quickly as possible) when the alarms blared angry red, and the door shut behind him with a final slam. He could not open them, nor any other doors in the flat, and, while he was still not bored enough to test the theory, he suspected that the wide expanse of the windows was actually bullet-proof.

James was impressed despite himself.

Q's security didn't fight the intrusion, but aimed to keep the intruders contained.

It was a bloody well-though out defence. If only he hadn't been the one trapped in it.

He was bloody bored, of course. He had already snooped around the part of the flat that was available to him and the only personal thing he had found was a bookshelf with interestingly wide variety of books on at least seven different languages and sleek, modern-looking computers, which he did not dare even to breathe on. He did not care to find out what kind of security system Q had on them.

Though he did stumble upon a weapons cache in a kitchen cabinet, filled with guns, sharp-looking knives and one disassembled rifle. And wasn't that fascinating.

And better left alone, of course.

So when he finally heard the key in the lock some three hours later, he was lounging on the sinfully soft leather couch, reading some Russian detective novel, in the original, and sipping from a glass of wine, because he couldn't find any scotch, anywhere.

Q did not look surprised to see him there.

She glanced at him with one eyebrow raised as she entered a long, numbered code in the electronic board by the door. James noted that she was very careful about placing herself in his line of sight, denying him the knowledge. So, an alarm code.

"007," she said as she turned around and placed her satchel on the coffee table. "Have you enjoyed the Caribbean?" she asked and there was a smirk tugging at her lips.

Of course she bloody knew. James was half convinced she knew everything.

He grinned his most charming grin that usually made all of his targets willing to trust him. Q remained unmoved. "As a matter of fact, I did," he said, making sure that the leer was heard in his voice.

She raised one disdainful eyebrow and aimed a sharp glare his way. James was surprised that she wasn't more angered by his intrusion in her home. He had always thought that she would be the type to cling to any privacy she could when working with a bunch of spies – nobody even knew her real name, for God's sake – but she was suspiciously good-humoured about the fact.

Granted, he did not have any access to anything personal, but that was neither here nor there.

Q looked like she dearly wanted to roll her eyes, but abstained. She marched right past him to the kitchen, which was as sleek and spotless as the rest of the flat, and opened the refrigerator to take out a bottle of water. "It's fortunate for you that you decided to resurrect yourself today, Bond," she said, idly, puttering about as he watched her, interested. She seemed more relaxed in her home, but there was still something reclusive around her, something cold and untouched that he couldn't properly understand. "Mallory had only yesterday decided to pronounce you dead. We didn't even have the time to sell your flat."

James sat up and put his glass of wine on the coffee table. "I thought you knew I was alive, Q."

She looked at him, grey-green eyes unreadable. "Oh, I did. The possibility of the shrapnel killing you at that particular angle and distance was very small. It would have missed all the vital organs and left you with stitches at worst," she explained, voice detached. She did not seem all that worried about the prospect of him dying. James leaned in unconsciously. "But Mallory wanted proof."

Mallory. Not M, but Mallory still. James found that he understood the reluctance to call him by that title.

"And what about the Caribbean? You knew where I was. Wasn't that proof enough?" he asked as she came closer to pick up the satchel.

She hesitated for a second and if James wasn't so bloody good at reading people he wouldn't have caught it. "My method of tracking you, 007, wasn't strictly legal," she confessed.

He leaned back into his seat, sprawled comfortably, all dangerous cat-like grace, and grinned. "Were you worried, Q?" he asked, delighted.

She aimed a withering glare his way before determinedly stomping towards the door James assumed led to her bedroom. She somehow made it all look dignified, even in the rumpled clothes and messy bun. "Of course not, 007. I keep track of all my agents," she said, and James didn't miss the possessive pronoun. His grin widened. She turned to look at him over her shoulder, hair in disarray, face pale and tired, but grey-green eyes sharp and intelligent. "I've just come home from eighteen hour long shift, Bond, and I intend to rest," she said, enunciating every word very clearly. He prepared himself for a request that he leave. Not even his M had ever wanted an assassin in her flat when she was vulnerable and sleeping, no matter how much she trusted him. Q wouldn't either. "You can have the sofa, but please do wash that glass before you leave. And don't enter my room, 007. I'll know if you do."

And then she left, leaving James staring after her, stunned.

Well then. This was new.

…

The thing was, it became something of a tradition.

James would go on a mission get hurt and then arrive at Q's, bloody and broken, to a first aid kit waiting for him. Or he would declare himself dead and then, when he was ready to resurrect himself, appear at her flat to be received with a raised eyebrow and dry words. Or, even when the missions would go without any problems – a rarity – he would simply drive to the safety of the flat, because it was close and familiar.

And Q didn't seem to mind.

The second time he came there, he was too tired to even wait for her and had promptly passed out on her sofa. He woke up to the smell of fresh tea and a warmth of the blanket thrown over him. He had not even stirred when she'd covered him.

The third time the blanket was waiting for him, folded on his sofa, and there was a bottle of the good scotch and a clean tumbler on the kitchen counter. There was no note, but James was convinced this was Q's way of telling him he was getting predictable.

By the fifth time, the alarm had stopped blaring at his entrance.

He stopped counting after that.

…

"Q," James tried to grab her attention as she stared at the screen blearily. It was three in the bloody morning and he wouldn't have even been there if he hadn't returned from Serbia to an empty flat, looking like nobody had been there for days. Q had, apparently, decided that working for four days straight, with only short naptimes on the cot in the Q Branch was an acceptable solution to some kind of crisis in the Near East that required three 00s to settle.

She needed food, rest and shower. In that order.

"Q," he said, and grabbed her shoulder when she ignored him again. That was enough to catch her attention, because she blinked once, startled, and rose to her feet, whirling on her heel. If James hadn't taken a step back in time, he would've ended up with one awful shiner on his right eye. That right hook looked dangerous.

He was impressed. Q had reacted like any field-trained agent would.

She blinked at him, bewildered, but her grey-green eyes cleared quickly. "Bond?" she asked, tilting her head. "What the fuck are you doing here?" James' eyes widened. She must've been real bloody tired if she resorted to cursing. Usually she was more creative in expressing her displeasure.

James smiled. "It's three in the morning, Q," he said, slowly. "You've been here for days. I'm here to take you to dinner and then home," he explained, and shouldered past her, grabbing her laptop, snapping it shut and placing it in her bag. He quickly gathered all her things before she could stop him and then turned around, gesturing at the complicated-looking screen. There was no way in hell that he was touching those. Q would kill him, on the verge of collapse or no.

She was looking at him, curious, and her piercing gaze was heavy on his form. James did not fidget, because he was a 00 agent, but the urge was there. He felt as if she could see right through him. Q hummed, lips quirking up. "Well," she said, and seemed very much amused. "008, 003 and 005 are safely on their flights back so I suppose I can spare the time," she said, dryly, as if she had the choice. She pressed a few keys, faster than he could see, and the computers shut down immediately.

He led her out with a hand on the small of her back, the discrete eyes of the Q Branch members on the night shift following them all the time.

…

After that, it became normal for James to take her to dinner when she was working too hard. He would come to the Q Branch, peel her off of her computers and somehow lead her to the elevators, where she allowed him, amused, to drive her to the restaurant and then home. She seemed to think that he was terribly funny, the way he was acting, and every time he would ask her, she only smirked harder. It drove him mad, the feeling that he was missing something, but she only claimed that he had to figure it out by himself.

Nevertheless, the dinners became more frequent, sometimes they went to the drinks, and few times, when she was feeling particularly frustrated by the idiots she had to work with, to the shooting range, where he found out just how good she was with those beloved weapons of hers.

(It was bloody terrifying. And hot, but mostly terrifying.)

He wasn't surprised when someone took notice.

…

The thing was, all 00s liked Q.

Not all of the MI6 did, of course, because she may be whip-smart and almost scarily competent, but she was all jagged edges and cold, cutting sarcasm that drew blood. Many of her co-workers hated her guts, and James was even aware that more often than not, they wished she would just stop talking to them, even if they were too scared to say anything. And if he could tell, so could Q, and she seemed to take untold amounts of enjoyment in causing discomfort on the 'incompetent imbeciles that think they are capable of providing something useful to the government'.

They respected her though. Everybody who met her for more than five minutes could not help but to respect her.

But the 00s… Well, they were damaged, each and every one of them where almost broken. And Q's acerbic attitude, her fearless threats and cold comfort she offered, seemed like the thing the near-sociopathic assassins craved the most. She was not afraid, she was not disrespectful and she was not awed by them. Q just… She just led them through their missions, the steady voice in their ear and a careful eye in the cameras. She ensured they were alive and safe, allowed them to work in the most efficient way they could, no matter the regulations and helped them.

By her third month as the Quartermaster, James knew that the 00s thought of her as theirs as much as she considered them her weapons. He had always thought it telling that not one of them had ever voiced a protest to any similar statement that she said.

They were practically her little band of assassins. Unruly, vicious and half-wild, but loyal nevertheless. It made Mallory nervous.

So he was not terribly surprised when Adam Irwing, 008, caught up to him one day in the hallways of the Vauxhall and glanced at him, dark eyes hard. "So, Bond," he started, and his voice was clipped. "What's happening between you and our Quartermaster?"

James grinned at him charmingly, even as his mind whirled. Irwing was, he had heard, the first 008 to ever work with Q and one of her most ardent supporters. He was an infiltration specialist, a capable actor, seducer and conman. He had most of the SIS' staff wrapped around his little finger and could make James' life very, very difficult if he said one wrong word.

"I don't know what are you talking about, Irwing," James said, and he knew that he sounded completely truthful. Irwing, however, knew him better.

He frowned. "Cut the crap, Bond," he snapped and came closer, almost looming. He was not taller than James, but his shoulders were wider and he knew how to use it. "The dinners, the drinks, the whole seduction package. Are you shagging her?"

James stopped in the middle of the hallway and looked him in the eye. "No," he denied determinedly.

Irwing looked at him, long and hard, and then blinked in surprise. "Shite," he said, and seemed incredulous. "You're really telling the truth. You're not sleeping with her. But you want to, don't you? You actually like her."

"Well…" James said, because he could not say that he did not think about it. Q may not be traditionally beautiful, what with her height and too-sharp, unusual features, but she was striking in the way that made her hard to forget. He liked her perpetually messy hair, and her harsh cheekbones and her frankly eerie eyes. He liked her.

Shite, indeed.

He thought for a moment what to say and then settled for a simple, "I trust her."

Irwing's eyes widened. "Well, fuck," he said. Because, in their profession, thrust was even rarer and more precious than love. And James had not trusted anyone for a very long time.

The other agent grinned suddenly. "Well, then, Bond, good luck. She's a spitfire, we all know that." He seemed like her would very much enjoy seeing James in perpetual doghouse. "And if you hurt her…"

He didn't need to finish the sentence. James grimaced. "You'll kill me?" he guessed.

Irwing clapped him on the back. James barely resisted the urge to hit him. "No, mate," he said, and was entirely too cheerful. "She'll kill you herself. I'll just enjoy the show."

Well. That was the truth.

…

James was eating dinner with Q – one he'd cooked – in the apartment he's been living in for months and casually chatting with his co-worker, when the realization hit him.

"Q," he started, hesitatingly. She looked at him curiously. "Are we dating?" It seemed such a ridiculous question. It had to be asked.

"Bond," she said, and her voice was desert-dry, but her lips were twitching and her eyes were warm and amused. "We eat dinner together at least three times a week. We go to the drinks. We watch crappy telly and eat take-out on the sofa you later sleep on. You live here, for God's sake. What do you think?"

James blinked. "We're dating," he repeated, and it didn't sound weird at all. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Her face softened slightly, and if he didn't know her so well, he wouldn't have noticed it. "You've had some bad experiences. You needed time," she said and he realized that she was being considerate the best she knew how. After Vesper he would have run as far as he could from any sign of commitment if he had noticed it. But now… Now, here was Q, cold and rude and dependable in a way nobody has ever been before, and he thought that dating might not be such a bad idea.

And then a though came to his mind.

"Wait," he said. "We could have been having sex all this time?" That was just a waste.

Q snorted in amusement. "We can have it now," she said, as if she were talking about the weather. "But, Bond," she started. There was something sharp in her eyes. "While I have nothing against an occasional one-night stand, I've grown… rather fond of you, so I hope that this can be a long-term relationship," she said and sounded like she really didn't want to admit it. Suddenly, there was something impish in the tilt of her mouth. "And besides, we're living together. The morning after would be awkward, don't you think?"

James couldn't help but laugh.

…

It was easy. The only change was that he didn't sleep on the sofa after that.

("Q."

"007. Are those my weapons? What happened to them?"

"Are you not going to ask if I'm all right, darling?"

"007."

"Well, see… There was this pond and a crocodile, really small, and that thug was really badly coordinated. I'm afraid that the gun was an unfortunate casualty."

"A crocodile."

"Yes. It was a rather lovely specimen."

"I see."

"Q?"

"Bond, I'm afraid that for the next two weeks you will be unable to go on missions. I know this may come as a surprise to you, but all MI6 employees are required to attend sexual harassment seminars. I see here that you have missed them for the last eight years – which may explain the number of complaints in HR – but you really must attend this year. I took the liberty of registering you already."

"Q?"

"That was all, 007. And please, when you get home, take the blanket from the closet. I'm afraid that I will require the bed for tonight. Alone."

"Shite.")